Irrationality
by mjweasley
Summary: John has an irrational fear and Sherlock is feeling irrational things. As the rain puts the two men in an awkward situation, realisations and observations are made and the two learn things about each other and Hthemselves they didn't think possible.
1. Author's Notes

Title: Irrationality

Fandom: Sherlock (BBC2010 Verse)

Rating: K+ to be safe

Warnings: A little bit of male/male romance-y stuff. Don't like, don't read.

Pairings: Sherlock/John, pre slash/slash whatever

A/N: Meant to be something a little funnier and lighter, but it turned out like this. So apologies. And it's actually long this time! Well, longish. Apologies again if it rambles. And please R&R

Disclaimer: Obviously don't own. If I did, the two would be together by now, and Sarah would not exist.


	2. Part One

**Irrationality**

John sat on his chair, his old walking cane sitting across his lap. He was staring outside the window at the pouring rain and the occasional flashes of lightning. His hands were absentmindedly rolling the cane up and down the arm rests. The crash of thunder rolled across London and John jumped involuntarily. He cursed himself for being like this and went back to staring at the window. His fear of storms was a stupid and highly irrational one, one he'd had since he was younger. He had hoped that it would have disappeared once he returned from Afghanistan, but it seemed to have intensified since. He let out a low growl as another crash of thunder sounded.

John licked his lips over his mouth and he realised that he hadn't had anything to drink within a couple of hours, at least. He didn't really want to move, but now the power of thirst was too much, and Mrs Hudson was away for a week visiting her son. Sighing and resigning himself to the fact that he would actually have to get up, John placed his cane on the floor to lean upon it and stood up. He stretched out his numbness and limped over into the kitchen. He looked into the fridge, only having little hope there was fresh milk that had been left untainted by Sherlock's experiments. It just happened to be his day. There was just enough milk left for a cup of tea, after that, more shopping would need to be done. A smile cross John's face, and for the few brief moments while the kettle was boiling and he was getting the tea ready, he had forgotten all about the storm, about irrational fears and started to think upon other irrational, yet pleasant things. Like how Mycroft hadn't bothered wither of the men in a couple weeks. John was still unsure if it was a good sign, or bad, but he enjoyed not playing the pawn to the other Holmes. That then lead John to think about said other Holmes, how he had seemed quite... human over the past couple of days. It confused John slightly, but it was nice. The taller of the two seemed to behaving an effect over John recently, and it was a little unsettling. No doubt, the consulting detective would have notice the fact as well, and to John, that made he whole situation rather awkward. Luckily, neither of them had brought it up. John stirred his tea while thinking on these unsettling things when suddenly a loud noise made him jump, spilling some of the contents onto the floor.

He turned around, trying to see if the noise that had broken his thoughts was thunder, but the sight of his flatmate standing in the door way told him it wasn't John rolled his eyes, and examined the damage his jump had done to his tea. There was still a reasonable amount left, so John shrugged and limped back over to his chair, tea in one hand, his cane in the other. Sherlock just stood there, arm across his chest, water dripping off every angle of his body, his eyes and brain making the smallest of observations. John sat back down, placed his cane to it's original position and went back to staring at the window, the mug of tea being held close to his mouth and in both hands. Sherlock noted everything and when he saw John take his first sip he picked up two things; one, John was making small movements, as if he was scared something might disturb him at any moment, and two, that he was having some sort of involuntary action to John and his tea. Sherlock kept this second fact at the back of his mind to be observed later, then deleted. He continued to observe his friend until John looked up and met his stare. For some reason, Sherlock felt heat rising in his neck and turned away, feeling uncomfortable about... well, everything. For Sherlock to be having reactions to another's smallest movements, to have... feelings. This was dangerous territory, and Sherlock didn't know what to do. His eyes roamed while his mind was still trying to decode this latest puzzle, and he finally decide the couch is where he should be. He sat right in the middle, dropping his head into his hands. John turned back to the window to continue watching the storm, jumping a little each time thunder rolled over. The two stayed like that until John finally willed himself to turn away from the downpour. He stared at the man on the couch, and something seemed out of place. Sherlock seemed motionless, yet at the same time, shivering. John snapped into his 'doctor mode' and observed his 'patient'. H noticed that while Sherlock a taken off his massive coat and scarf, he was sill waring his favourite suit, which was absolutely drenched through. He had made no attempt to dry himself, or change, which was a obvious observation. John stared at him, the word why consuming his brain. He shook it off, and tried to call out to Sherlock.

"Sherlock, come on! Sherlock!:

John waited. No response. He sighed inwardly and got up, deciding to leave his cane behind in his chair. It would only hinder him more than help. He went over to Sherlock, kneeling in front of him to try to get a better response. Again, John sighed inwardly. The situation was more awkward then it needed to be, and he pushed all of his... hormonal urges away for later. He tried to call out to Sherlock again, a little softer now that he was closer.

"Sherlock, look at me, come on."

Still no response. John changed tactics.

"Holmes, look at me. You don't, I'll call Mycroft."

The threat had worked. Sherlock looked up, disgust clearly written on his face.

"Eugh. Fine, I looked. What?"

John rolled his eyes at Sherlock's snappiness. Sherlock was never very good at being disrupted. John eyed him over once again before speaking in a very serious tone.

"You're wet Sherlock."

"Excellent observation there John," the sarcasm flowed freely. John just kept going.

"Really wet. Why haven't you changed? You could get sick," the concern was obvious to both of them, and both pretended that it wasn't. Sherlock seemed to freeze up, and John became aware of how close they were to each other. Moments passed. Sherlock coughed to break up the awkwardness and tried to speak.

"I'm, um, well, I've had other things on my mind. Things I don't deal with well. They were more important than changing. I, Sherlock Holmes, am very confused. I must sort this out straight away."

And with that, he leant back, swung his legs up onto the sofa, and faced away from John, emotions flooding his face. John was shocked, and more then a little taken back. He rocked back on the balls of his feet before standing up. He observed the back of Sherlock before deciding that he needed some air. And a hot drink. He walked over to grab his cane, before grabbing his coat and heading out. As he slammed the door, Sherlock turned around and stared at the wooden panels. He found himself asking why this hurt so much, and before he knew it, a tear was falling. He wiped it away and turned back around. He had to figure this out, before it drove him to the brink of psychopathy.

John returned about an hour later, having had a cup of tea at the local cafe and clearing his mind. His brain argued to him that he didn't care about Sherlock, not in any way apart from a flatmate and, as luck would have it, a friend. His irrational side however, that little voice that always contradicted him, told him otherwise. John listened to the little voice, not for the first time in hid life, and he looked at the facts and made his deduction. When the moment of realisation dawned on him that he actually _fancied_ Sherlock, he had to hold himself back from bursting into laughter and snorting the tea all over the table. John guessed it was inevitable, but he wasn't going to tell anyone. Well, Sherlock and probably even Mycroft would guess. But John wouldn't actually tell them, nor confirm or deny if they asked. Back in 221B, John had hung up his coat and looking around, trying to avoid looking at Sherlock. It worked for all about ten seconds when John realised that Sherlock was in the exact position as when he left. He went over to check his pulse, relieved to find him still alive. He did notice his very cold temperature and scowled. Feelings aside, John didn't want Sherlock to make himself sick. He gently nudged the lying man, trying to get his attention. He eventually got it.

"What?" came the sniffily reply. John vaguely wondered if Sherlock had been crying. John gently placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, trying to persuade him to turn around.

"Sherlock, your ice cold. You need to get warm. You'll get sick."

"Why should I bother?" came the response.

"Why should you bo... oh Sherlock, because if you're sick, Lestrade won't give you cases, and Mycroft will never let you hear the end of it."

Sherlock went still again for the second time that day. He slowly turned around and faced John, staring at him intensely. John glared back him with the same intensity. A silent understanding passed between them, but neither could figure out what it actually was. Sherlock groaned suddenly and John blinked.

"Fine. Help me up." Sherlock mumbled. John raised his eyebrows but proceeded to help up his friend anyway. The two of them stood still, just for a moment, before letting go and walking up the stairs. John turned around to face Sherlock, who was walking rather slowly, and had his arms wrapped around his body, trying to regain some heat. John just stared. This great man who didn't let anything get to him now stood here, looking so vulnerable. John wanted to just envelop him into a hug, tell him things will be okay and not let him go til the sun came up, but he was sure that the other man would just throw him off and complain to some degree, probably mention his marriage to his work and whatever else. John sighed and turned back around, facing the door.

"Okay Sherlock, let's see if you have any warm clothes we can change you into."

John opened the door and took a step in. The sight that met him was not really a surprise. Books and science equipment were strewn all over the place, his bed barely slept in, and a strange smell coming from somewhere. John shrugged and stepped further in. Sherlock just hovered at the door, looking very uncomfortable.

"John, I don't own any other clothes." John stopped in his tracks and turned to face Sherlock.

"Seriously? All you have are dress shirts, pants and suits?"

Sherlock nodded weakly and shrugged.

"Oh, and underwear. Obviously," Sherlock added. John decided to ignore the last statement and disbelieve the first until he ad a look for himself. A five minute search proved Sherlock to be right. John grumbled and walked out of the disastrous state of a room, closing the door behind him. Sherlock gave him a look that said 'I told you so' and John just stared back, willing him to say something. Sherlock didn't, so John rolled his eyes and headed towards his bedroom. Sherlock followed behind him, a little hesitant.

"Why are we going to your room John?" Sherlock asked.

"You need clothes Sherlock. Warm clothes that actually will keep you warm. I have some jumpers that are too big for me that might fit you. Otherwise, you really will get sick."

An 'oh' came from the other man, and the two finished the short walk in silence. John opened up his door, and gestured to Sherlock to go in. The taller man stooped into the frame and sat on John's bed, just on the very edge. John weakly smiled at him, and then proceeded to go through his closet, trying to find something appropriate for the other man to wear. There was no talking between the men, and it was just companionable silence, albeit a bit more awkward than usual. John wondered if Sherlock had figured his latest feelings out yet. Sherlock was thinking about how he could possibly say any of these things out aloud. Both were caught up in there own thoughts, until John's cry of 'Gotcha!' broke the trains of thought. Sherlock looked up expectedly. John turned around, holding up a creamy coloured jumper that was at least two sizes too big. Sherlock fought it at first, but inevitably a smile creeped across his face. They both let out a laugh, John handed it over to Sherlock who observe it and felt its texture in his hands.

"Alright, you start to undress yourself, I'll find a towel to dry yourself down a bit, then I'll look for some pants. Okay?"

Sherlock nodded at John, still looking at the jumper. John stared at him, curiosity grabbing him, but he couldn't stand there. If they didn't get him warm soon, then it would not be good. He left the room and went in search for a towel. A couple of minutes later, John returned to his room, holding the towel on his arm like a butler. He re-entered his room to find Sherlock still sitting in the same position as when he left.

'This is becoming a habit,' John thought to himself.

"Sherlock, why haven't you started taking the wet clothes off?"

"Hmm, what? Oh. The jumper, it fascinated me," he said as he looked up to face John. John just rolled his eyes.

"Come on, I'll help you. You really need to warm up Sherlock. You'll develop hypothermia and I really don't want to deal with a sick you."

Sherlock gazed up at John once more, and a small smile flashed on his face. He stood up and started to remove his suit jacket, shivering intensely once it was removed.

"John, I'm so… cold. Are you sure you'll be able to warm me up?"


	3. Part Two

**Irrationality; Part Two**

John looked up from the ground and stared at Sherlock. He noticed the vulnerability in his eyes and he realised something else. Sherlock Holmes was letting someone in, letting them break his defences and allowing himself to feel. That someone was himself, John Watson. He bit his tongue to stop the sound of realisation escaping his mouth. John eyed Sherlock over again, standing there with his arms wrapped around him and his suit jacket on the floor in a crumpled pile. A small and sweet smile grew on John's face.

"Come here, you idiot. I said I'd help, didn't I?"

John held his arms wide open, towel hanging between his arms, giving Sherlock an encouraging look. Sherlock was hesitant, but he slowly ambled over to the smaller man, and wrapped himself in the proffered towel. It was an awkward sight, the taller of the two being wrapped up and taken care of by the smaller, but it was sweet in its simplicity. Sherlock stood still while John gently unbuttoned his shirt and removed it. There was a moment of awkwardness, but both got over it, and John wrapped Sherlock back up in the towel, trying to dry him off enough to where the jumper.

"Won't I need a shirt to wear under the jumper?" Sherlock asked, the obviousness of the question apparent. John stopped in his tracks. He cursed under his breath. Sherlock shifted uncomfortably and tried to think of something to say. They stood like that for minutes, trying to diffuse the situation. John finally tucked the corner of the towel into itself and stepped back.

"I'm sorry. I'll find one for you. One of your dress shirts should do just fine, but I'll find a singlet for you as well. Give me one moment," John stepped back, and almost ran out of the room. Sherlock was left standing there, more confused than ever. John cared about him, deeply it seemed, but he was scatterbrained about the whole situation they were in. It didn't help Sherlock in trying to decode why he was suddenly feeling…feelings. Feelings he had long since deleted from his conscious. He stood there in an awkward stance, waiting for John to return. It wasn't that he couldn't dress himself, but after everything had happened, his brain was only functioning at normal human capacity. He felt like he could cry at any moment, and he didn't like that at all. He closed his eyes, and he tried to focus on the facts, tried to decode this complicated mess. He became so engrossed that he didn't notice John re-enter the room until he heard a scuffling noise. He opened one eye cautiously, and closed it again when he saw that it was just John trying to find a singlet. He once again tried to focus on something real, something factual, but was again interrupted when John mumbled an apology, and removed the towel. Sherlock shivered involuntarily, but he couldn't decide if it actually had anything to do with his declining body temperature. He opened his eyes to find John holding up a singlet to his chest, trying to judge if it would fit him. Sherlock observed that his favoured purple shirt was slung over John's shoulder; obviously it was the shirt he was to wear underneath the jumper. John put his arms down, and put his head up.

"Right, Sherlock, arms up, time to get you warmed up."

Sherlock did as he told, but he made no effort to help. He just didn't want to do anything at the current time. For the first time in his life, Sherlock _wanted_ to sleep; he welcomed it. He continued to stand there, slightly amused at how John had to stand on his tip toes to manage to put the singlet over his arms. Sherlock didn't move from where he stood, he thought it might make things easier for John to finish dressing him. Eventually, Sherlock was dressed in dry shirts, and the feel of John's jumper made Sherlock warm, both outside and inside. He stood there, arms still raised in the air and aware that his legs were still damp. He slowly lowered his arms and looked quizzically at John. John was staring quizzically at Sherlock's legs. He may have had feelings or the consulting detective, but they were still so new, so raw and John didn't think he'd be able to keep a straight face. Nor was he sure that they were completely alone. He wouldn't put it past Mycroft to somehow be spying on the two of them, trying to find the 'happy announcement' he expected. John picked up the forgotten towel and handed it to Sherlock.

"Okay, I'm sorry Sherlock, but there are some boundaries I can't even cross. Please, please strip down, dry yourself and put on some dry underwear and the pants that are sitting on the corner of my bed," John leaned to the right and pointed, "I'll quickly go and buy some milk so we can have tea. Okay? Sherlock?"

John stared up expectedly at Sherlock, and Sherlock looked down. He gave a little nod, and John nodded back before leaving the room. Sherlock counted 125 seconds for the front door to open ad close so he deducted that John must have grabbed his jacket before leaving the apartment. Sherlock turned around to face the window to gauge the weather. The rain had stopped pouring as heavily as it was about an hour ago, but it was still enough to soak a man through. The lightning had ceased to stop, however, there was still a very occasional roll of thunder. Sherlock scowled as the noise passed. He had never really like storms. He could handle the rain, and he knew why thunder and lightning happened (not that it was important to him) but it didn't mean he liked it. Something about it had always annoyed him. A beeping noise alerting him that he had a text disrupted his train of thought. It was from John.

_Have you started taking care of yourself yet? JW_

Sherlock stared at the text. He looked down at himself, his soaking pants paired with a dry shirt and jumper. He started to type back before half-heartedly throwing his phone onto John's bed. He slowly started to remove the suit pants. His whole attitude towards the day was one of apathy; he didn't care for anything and he definitely didn't want to do anything. He continued to strip, ignoring the beeping sound that alerted him of a new message. He finally stepped out of the wet pants and he removed his underwear, and he stood there, just taking a deep breath. The beeping of his phone sounded again, and Sherlock decided to answer the texts. He had three missed messages.

_Well, then. Start. JW_

_Sherlock? What about now? JW_

_Holmes, if you don't reply that you have started to care for yourself, I shall ring your brother and tell him. I'm sure you wouldn't want that. JW_

Sherlock groaned at how manipulative John was turning out to be. He was going to have to stop John from hanging out with Mycroft so much. He cast his eyes to the ground, searching for the dry underwear that John had bought in for him. He found them on the floor near the bed. He bent down to pick them up, and as he rose, he noticed the pants that John had provided for him. They were made of a fleecy material, well worn and somehow still very warm looking in appearance. Sherlock deducted it must have been one of John's favourite pair of pants. The thought touched Sherlock, and he slung the pants over his shoulder while he pulled the underwear up over his long legs. He then proceeded to pull on John's pants, and even though they were just a little short on the ankle, Sherlock felt as though he belonged in the pants. He quickly looked himself up and down before deeming himself to be "warm". He picked up his phone from where it was laid forgotten and sent a message to John.

_Yes John, I'm warm now. And bored. Don't call Mycroft, I may have to evict you. Happy? SH_

Sherlock didn't care if his text sounded mean, it was just a very brief insight as to what was feeling. What he_ shouldn't _be feeling. He held onto his phone and left John's room, looking for something to do. He headed towards his bedroom, thinking they're might be an experiment that had produced new results or needed to clean up. His phone beeped once more and he looked down.

_Whatever you say. You and I both know you wouldn't. I'm the only person who can put up with you for this long. I'll be home soon. JW_

Sherlock simply stared at it, the text finally sending him into a fit of anger. He chucked his phone at the wall, then stormed around his room, nearly destroying everything in his room to find the gun he owned. Once he found it, he stared shooting, shooting the walls and doors. He really didn't care if anything else was destroyed, but he knew that he would highly regret it later. So the gun continued to shoot bullets at the four walls and door of his room until Sherlock heard a creaking noise i the hallway. He stopped shooting for a moment while he opened the door. His finger was pressed tightly to the trigger, almost ready to send off another bullet when he realised that John was standing there. The gun dropped to the floor with a clattering noise, and Sherlock's face was drained of all colour. He stood shocked for a moment before pushing past John and running into the other man's room. He immediately jumped onto the bed and crawled under the sheets, never wanting to see the light of day again; never wanting to face John ever again. Everything he knew, everything he thought he knew, was falling to pieces and Sherlock couldn't deduct why. It was that fact that scared him the most. He curled his arms around the pillow and let the tears that had been building up fall freely.

However, John was still in the hallway, more than a bit confused with the whole situation. Sherlock did mention that he was bored, but John didn't expect him to be wildly shooting up his room. He had ducked a couple of flying bullets that had com through the door, but he was otherwise unscathed. He limped down into the kitchen, the continuing rain still playing havoc with his body. He set about making two cups of tea, then limped back upstairs to join Sherlock in his room. He gently nudged the door open with his foot and walked in. His eyes picked up on the sight of Sherlock laying in his bed. John smiled weakly and laid one cup down on the side table, while he made to move and sit on his computer chair. He pulled it around so that he was facing Sherlock. He sat down and gazed outside the window, his body mimicking his position from earlier that day.

John was still watching the window intently when Sherlock stirred. A coughing noise brought John's attention back to Earth and upon seeing Sherlock sit up, he place his mug down on the ground and rushed over to him. His doctoring instincts were still on alert. John took his pulse and put a hand against Sherlock's forehead to gauge temperature. After he was done, he calmed down a little and sat on the end of the bed. There was silence before John had finally had enough.

"Sherlock, why were you so wet in the first place? I mean, even a high functioning sociopath like yourself should be able to keep himself out of the rain," John offered as the conversation starter. Sherlock just stared at him, his eyes ablaze with embarrassment.

"John, this is very hard for me to say. Lately, I've not been feeling... well, like me and it's rather off-putting. I haven't been up to...," Sherlock took a breath and continued on, " up to my usual standards of deduction. Lestrade even sent me away from the case because I wasn't coming up with anything useful. Me, John, me!"

Sherlock sighed in exasperation. John looked on worried, concerned for his friend. Whatever had hit him had hit him really hard, and John definitely did not like this side of Sherlock. He opened and closed his mouth a few times before finally saying anything.

"Okay, maybe I can help you. Maybe this isn't something that can be deducted. Maybe it's something to do with feelings, something irrational."

"Like your fear of storms."

John looked at Sherlock with surprise but it was gone within an instant. Of course Sherlock would know. He ran a hair through his hair and continued on.

"Yes, like that. What do you think. Has someone made you feel this way? Or do you think it is something completely unrelated all together?"

Sherlock looked down for a moment, considering which words to say. It wasn't easy but her was John; someone who had put up with him, shared the rent and followed him around on dangerous cases. Someone who had saved his life. He felt like he owed this man something, even if it was just speaking up.

"A person, yes. And the most confusing thing is I don't know why I am feeling...feelings. I had long ago pushed these irrational things far from my mind, such nonsense was not needed. Then a few months ago, I met someone, and they have seemed to bring them to the forefront. It's a problem that I have never encountered before, I cannot solve it, and it frustrating me to hell."

Sherlock observed John as he took all of this information in. It took about a minute before John spoke again.

"Okay, so that's the problem. Another small one to get out of the way first. Do you know if this person feels the same way about you?"

The consulting detective leant back a little bit, as if this new information was another link in the puzzle. He pondered for sometime before answering.

"Would that make me feel better John? Would that make these horrible feelings go away?"

John winced at feelings being described as horrible. Sure, there were at times, but feelings are what made people more than just a skeleton with skin and organs. He was in the presence of one of the greatest men alive, and here was a chance to become a good man, and the one thing that would make him that, he was calling horrible. John had hesitation to speak. He met eyes with Sherlock and he knew that he had to say something.

"It depends Sherlock. If the person likes you back, the negative emotions, the ones like anxiety and sadness, will disappear. If not, the more positive ones will disappear for a while. But feelings, they don't stay the same forever. They change, they intensify, the weaken. They're a puzzle, yes, but you can't ever really figure them out Sherlock. This is one time you'll have to lose."

Sherlock look away, his eyes scrunched up in slight annoyance, considering all the facts. He turned to John, his intention to observe and deduct, see if it was worth him to spill his heart out. His eyes noticed the weak smile that occurred whenever John looked his way, his tendency to look down quickly after a thought involving the two of them in an awkward situation. the way he put up with Sherlock. He added all these points in his head, as well as everything he had noticed over the months. An 'oh' crossed his face, and he ducked his head down to hide it. Once he was sure it was gone he turned back around and asked John a question.

"John, has this ever happened to you? Did it happen with Sarah?"

John dropped his head, just for a moment, but Sherlock noticed it and it was added to his collection of John Watson moments.

"No, not with Sarah. Not as intense as what I'm feeling for this person now. And the worst thing Sherlock, is that we could never be, no matter how much I dream of it."

The two sat still, John's words still left floating openly in the air. John quickly dropped his head into his hands once he realised what he had said. Sherlock grinned and tried to wriggle back into the wall so that John could lie down. He extended his arms and snatched onto John's jumper. John felt the tugging ad slowly looked at the man who was tugging him. small yet sincere smile played on his face, and John fell victim to it, giving in to Sherlock's pull. John snuggled down into the sheets and twisted his body so that he faced the taller man. It was awkward, but both found i pleasant. Sherlock remembered something that Jon had said to him in the swimming pool and decided to bring it up.

"I'm glad no one saw that."

"Mm, what?" came the muffled response.

"You, snuggling up to me in a darkened bedroom. People might talk."

Sherlock felt a light slap at his chest and looked down to see John looking up at him.

"You're an arse, you know that right?" said John with a smile. Sherlock lowered his head and gave John an Eskimo kiss.

"But I'm your arse. Now, shhh, just lay here with me. Please. This, I can handle," he whispered. John gave a nod and wriggled around a bit, so that his head was laying on Sherlock's extended arm. He gently closed his eyes and Sherlock followed suit, only after examining the man that was now someone he had never had before. Someone that was his.


End file.
